


Disposable Heroes

by VivatRex



Series: Master of Puppets [2]
Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Crowley Being an Asshole, Demonic Possession, Gen, Not Really Character Death, Saving the World, Set in The Lost Year & Season Six for SPN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivatRex/pseuds/VivatRex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Thing That Should Not Be. Tony returns from five months of trying to stop Judgment Day. He thinks (and hopes) he's out of the game for good, and his life can return to what it once was. Unfortunately, the real apocalypse has only just begun. </p><p>Heaven is being torn apart, Gibbs's clock is still ticking down, and worst of all, the new devil has his own plans for the MCRT...</p><p>Nothing will prepare them for what comes next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Afterman

**Author's Note:**

> So, anyone remember The Thing That Should Not Be?
> 
> *crickets* 
> 
> Ah. I'll take that as a "no".
> 
> Still, I do have a lot of the sequel written. I figured it was time to live dangerously and start posting it. Enjoy, not-so-starving masses...
> 
> Welcome to Disposable Heroes.

Gibbs took a deep draught of his coffee, reveling in the bitter flavor of the black liquid. He settled down at his workbench and turned on the small TV that sat on the nearby shelf. He set his coffee aside as he began sanding a strut that he hadn't quite gotten to the night before. It was a lazy Sunday, and he intended to enjoy it. Hopefully they wouldn't get called in on any cases.

Gibbs listened to the TV as he worked.

_"A ten block isolated radius in Detroit suffering extreme cold has meteorologists baffled..."_

_"Three separate tornadoes have slammed into Kansas in the past twenty-four hours, destroying thousands of homes and incurring hundreds of casualties..."_

_"The shipping center for Niveus Pharmaceuticals, the company providing the vaccine for H1N1, experienced what appears to be an act of domestic terrorism..."_

_"Eight dead bodies were found in an abandoned warehouse in Detroit, gruesomely murdered. Police currently have no leads..."_

Gibbs promptly shut off the TV. Every time he turned on the news nowadays, he saw shadows of the forthcoming end of the world. In disasters he saw the devil, in murder streaks he saw demons, in burnt out eye sockets and sudden insane weather patterns, he saw angels. Now that he was fully aware of all that was _really_ happening in the world, everything seemed to hold the taint of the supernatural. The taint of Armageddon.

It was the closest thing he could get to news on Tony, but he still had a hard time watching it. Because if things were still cracking apart across the globe, that meant that the devil was still walking the Earth, and that meant that Tony and the Winchesters might be dead, or worse. Gibbs had thought of calling, but he didn't have Tony's new number, as his old one had been destroyed by Orochi six months prior, and his senior field agent had left before he could ask for his new number.

He sighed before reaching for his ever-present bottle of bourbon. He poured some into his coffee. He needed something to distract himself. DiNozzo had managed to worm his way into his head since his departure, and in these quiet moments of solitude, his thoughts were almost always directed towards his former employee, and whatever the hell he was doing.

Tony was trying to save the world, with nothing but two kids, an old car, a drunk in a wheelchair, and a socially impaired angel.

Sometimes, he wished Tony was more of a coward.

Gibbs heard someone knocking on his front door. He huffed out a breath, standing up. _Probably Fornell_ , he thought to himself. The FBI agent had a tendency to show up on his doorstep with takeout and a twelve pack of Coors, and Gibbs could rarely find it within himself to complain about it. He suspected that Fornell had noticed his withdrawal the past few months, and his surprise visits were his way of trying to help.

Nice gesture, but he didn't need his help.

He needed his damn SFA back.

He trotted up the stairs, abandoning his coffee-bourbon mix on his mantle as he made his way to the door. He opened it up, letting in a warm spring breeze.

On his doorstep, looking as though he hadn't slept in several days and with his right side thoroughly soaked in blood, stood Anthony DiNozzo.


	2. Heavy Dirty Soul

"DiNozzo?" Gibbs's eyes widened when he saw him. It was one of the first times he could remember his boss looking genuinely shocked.

"Hey," Tony greeted weakly, supporting himself on the doorframe. "It's good to see you," he added, because that's what you say when you haven't seen someone in over five months. "Really good, actually." He took a step forward, but his legs were weak underneath him, and he nearly collapsed.

"Christ, Tony," Gibbs said, catching him before he could hit the ground. "Let's get you inside."

"I'm fine," he said as Gibbs escorted him inside, kicking the door shut behind the two of them. "Honest, boss. It's not even my blood."

"Then whose is it?" Gibbs asked. The older man guided him toward the couch, pushing Tony into a sitting position. He didn't seem to be worried about getting blood on the upholstery.

"Cas's," Tony said.

Lucifer, face twisting in annoyance, snapped his fingers. A second later, blood and gore splattered Tony’s side, a damp warmth soaking through his clothes and sticking them to his skin.

Cas's death was the last thing he registered before Lucifer broke his neck.

He'd scrubbed most of it off of his face at a truck stop in Illinois, but he hadn't bothered to change clothes. He'd driven straight through the night to get to DC. He'd already experienced watching someone he cared about die and feeling their lifeblood on his skin, but it was just as terrible the second time. Perhaps worse.

At least Kate wasn't blown to pieces by Satan himself.

"Castiel's dead?" Gibbs inquired, seating himself on edge of the coffee table across from Tony. He didn't blame him for the assumption, with the amount of blood caked on his clothing.

Tony shook his head. "No, no, he's alive... shouldn't be, but he is." He ran a hand through his hair, which was sticking up in all the wrong places and greasy. He really needed a shower. "It's kind of a long story, boss."

"I've got time."

"Look..." Tony leaned back against the couch. "I'm still... I'm processing a lot, right now. The last few months have been, well... take our little adventure with Orochi, times it by a couple hundred. That's been my... my _hiatus_ , so to speak."

"You need a shower. And sleep. Food, too."

"Yeah. Yeah, that all sounds... it all sounds really good right about now. I can't remember the last time I took a decent shower with water pressure that was more than a trickle. I mean, Bobby's house is great, but a man has needs..." He knew he was rambling, but at this point, he didn't care. He was too tired to care. The grief and exhaustion was mixing together in a cocktail that made him want to crawl under the covers and never open his eyes.

He felt a hand on the side of his face. "Tony?" Tony lifted his eyes to meet Gibbs's. "You still with me?"

"Huh? Yeah. Yeah, boss, I'm with you."

"You don't look it."

"I'm fine," he lied. "Tired is all. Just tired."

"I'm gonna go start the shower," Gibbs said slowly. His former boss then disappeared from his sight, leaving him alone. Blearily, Tony looked around. It was just like he remembered. A neat living room that held the ghosts and whispers of a family, even though only one man lived there. The house smelled like bourbon and coffee, and the couch was permanently indented from the many times Gibbs had slept on it.

It had been over five months since he left DC. Some days, it felt longer. Other days, it felt like he'd just driven off in the Impala with the Winchesters yesterday. Either way, being back at Gibbs's... it felt like coming home. And he supposed it was his home. Gibbs's house and NCIS headquarters. Not his own small apartment uptown. There was a difference between shelter and home.

Though, he had to admit, over the past few months, the backseat of the Impala had begun to feel a little bit like home, too.

He scratched at the stubble on his chin before reaching for the knife tucked in his belt. He pulled it out, examining it in the hazy morning sunlight, the dark red runes inscribed along the side glimmering. One day, Sam had told him this knife's story. Its previous owner was a demon named Ruby, the femme fatale that led Sam along the dark path that eventually ended with the death of Lilith, the first demon, then the subsequent breaking of the final seal that allowed Lucifer to escape from the Cage.

It was a knife with a black history, but once it had fallen into the Winchesters' possession, it had at least been able to do some good.

One day, hopefully soon, he would bury the knife in Crowley's chest.

_"I'm done, Tony. Take it. You need it more than me, now."_

"Shower's ready. I laid out some extra clothes for you." He jumped when he heard Gibbs's voice. He nodded dimly, rising from the couch on wobbly legs.

"Thanks," he muttered, ambling past Gibbs. He stopped before he reached the stairs, suddenly turning and pulling Gibbs into a tight embrace. At first, Gibbs did nothing, then he felt the other man's arms wrap around his back. "Thank you," he said, trying to convey what he was feeling with his touch and the two simple words.

_Thank you for still being here when I got back. Thank you for letting me go in the first place. Thank you for not being pissed that I ran off. Thank you for understanding why I had to leave._

"Go get washed up," Gibbs said. "You're gonna knock me out with that smell."

Tony backed away. "On it, boss." Why did it feel so good to say that again? He made his way up the stairs, and then beat the familiar path to the bathroom. The shower was running and hot. He saw a pair of his sweats and one of his Ohio State t-shirts waiting for him on the counter. He quickly stripped out of his bloody clothes before stepping into the shower, letting out a blissful sigh as the steaming water hit the muscles of his back, easing the tension in them.

He tried to remember the last time he took a shower. It had been a week, at least. Everything had been so hectic since Gabriel died... days blended with weeks, and between the alcohol and the near-death experiences, he hadn't been taking care of himself. If the looseness of his pants was any indication, he hadn't been eating properly, along with depriving himself of sleep and hygiene.

The world was ending. Certain things fell to the side.

He scrubbed himself meticulously. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to fully wash away the feeling of Cas's blood on him. The fact that the angel was still alive should've been a comfort to him, but it didn't change the fact that he'd seen Cas die right in front of him.

Too much death. Hell, he died himself moments after Cas... but after the second time around, that event didn't hold the same significance. At least the lights had gone out before he had to watch Bobby get his neck snapped.

He'd been killed by a fallen angel, and then brought back ten minutes later by _another_ fallen angel.

Life was funny, sometimes.

He remained in the shower until the hot water ran out, and then he stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He stretched his sore muscles before slipping into the clothes that Gibbs had left for him. They practically hung on him – in spite of all of the greasy diner food, cheap beer, and truck stop burritos that had sustained him lately, he'd lost a lot of weight – and built up much more muscle in certain places. Shotgun recoil was a bitch, so he'd been doing pull-ups on a daily basis for quite awhile now to build up the strength of his biceps and triceps.

Once he was dressed, he wiped a hand over the foggy mirror, opening up a small, condensation free section. He looked at his reflection for the first time in a long time. Dark circles hung under his bloodshot eyes, a testament to his perpetual lack of sleep. The past few months had aged him, and the lines by his eyes and on his forehead seemed much more defined.

Then there was the small, pale scar he now had on his chin. Friggin' Whore of Babylon. What a mess that had been.

He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying water droplets on the sink. He raked a comb through his hair before departing the bathroom. The guest room was directly across from the bathroom, and the door was open and waiting for him. He peered in, and the bed had been made up. Tony's favorite quilt of Gibbs's sat at the foot of the bed, waiting for him. A silent gesture from his former boss.

It made him want to cry. He didn't, though, because DiNozzos don't cry. Instead, he grabbed the quilt, pulled it around himself, and then practically collapsed into the bed. He groaned in bordering on ecstasy. He'd been sleeping either in the backseat of the Impala or Bobby's couch for the past few weeks. Being able to stretch out to his full length was a luxury he'd missed.

He was afraid sleep might elude him, but to his relief, it came swiftly, and before he knew it, he was in a deep slumber.

* * *

_"TONY!" Sam yelled. "Behind you!"_

_Tony turned in a flash, just in time to get tackled to the ground. A man that wasn't a man pinned him down with inhuman strength. Blood dribbled down his chin, and his skin was pale and cold. He really hoped that the lore was wrong when it came to zombie bites. He took the butt of his shotgun and smacked it into the zombie's jaw, sending it reeling backwards and giving him enough room to roll away._

_Back on his feet, Tony fired a blast into the zombie's head. It exploded, spattering the bottom of his jeans in gore. He swallowed down bile, then backed away, eyes flicking everywhere in search of more of the undead._

_"I think most of them are in Bobby's house," Sam said. "The door's broken down."_

_Jody Mills rounded one of the heaps of junker cars. "We better get in there and save his ass, then," she said, and he could tell she was trying to remain strong, but her voice was shaking. He couldn't blame her, after she'd just watched her own son eat her husband alive... and then had to allow Sam to kill him._

_So, this was being a hunter. Really being a hunter._

_Why the hell did he sign up for this, again?_

_Tony reloaded his shotgun, and then the three of them moved quickly towards Bobby's front door, which was hanging off of its hinges. Tony silently prayed that Dean and Bobby were alright, but with Karen being in the house and Bobby's obvious reluctance to kill her, he highly doubted it._

_Just as they reached the porch, a hand launched out and grabbed Tony's ankle, jerking his leg out from under him. Teeth sank into his calf, piercing through the fabric and digging deep into his flesh. He screamed, flailing, but it did nothing other than to rip the muscle further._

_Sam grabbed his arms, trying to pull him away, but the zombie held firm. Neither of them could risk shooting, as Tony was likely to get hit by the spread. Jody quickly stomped on the thing's head, and its jaw loosened just enough that Tony could tear his leg away with a sickening squelch. Jody backed up, and Tony brought up his sawed-off, blasting the zombie in between the eyes and sending its remains splattering over the side_ _of_ _the house._

_Its mouth was still chewing._

"DiNozzo!"

Tony gasped, and his eyes snapped open. A phantom pain throbbed in his leg, and his senses were thrown askew as the damp late winter chill in his dream was exchanged for the heavy warmth of the quilt over top of him. His vision swam for a moment before Gibbs's face came into view. The older agent's hand was on his shoulder.

"You were screaming," Gibbs said, by way of explanation.

He felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. Nightmares were a commonplace thing for him, now. A quiet conversation with Dean a few months ago had made it clear that if you were a hunter who didn't have nightmares, chances were that you were a pretty shitty hunter. He and the Winchesters had an unspoken agreement. If someone started thrashing around, screaming, crying, whatever, you shook them awake, patted them on the back, handed them a beer if need be, and then went back to sleep.

The nightmares were something he was fairly sure were never going to go away. At least this one wasn't of Lucifer. Those were the worst, and they left him feeling cold for hours.

"Sorry," he apologized, sitting up in bed. His sore muscles protested harshly. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock," Gibbs answered. Damn. He'd been hoping to sleep longer than eight hours, but he supposed that- "Seven o'clock Monday night."

Tony's face blanked. "You let me sleep for thirty-two hours straight?"

"You looked like you needed it. I actually tried waking you up this morning, but I couldn't get anything out of you. Had to check your pulse to make sure you weren't dead."

Tony huffed out a quiet laugh. "Well, at least I'm well-rested."

Gibbs nodded. "Dinner's downstairs. You up to eating?"

The idea of food sent saliva flooding into his mouth. "A finer idea I've never heard," he said. He sniffed the air. "Steaks?"

"Uh-huh."

"With onions?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

Tony grinned, and Gibbs stepped away from the bed so he could get up. His body disagreed with the movement after so long without it, but after pacing around the room a little, his limbs started responding better to commands. He followed Gibbs down the stairs and into the kitchen, where two plates were waiting for them. Steaks with a heavy topping of sautéed onions and a side of mash potatoes. Positioned next to each plate were ice cold bottles of beer. Exactly what he needed right now.

He sat down on one side, Gibbs at the other. For a few minutes, Gibbs allowed silence. Tony was about halfway finished with his steak when Gibbs looked up at him, and his former boss did that weird thing where he somehow managed to speak without actually saying anything.

"It's been a crazy few months, boss," he said through a mouthful of steak.

"Thought as much," Gibbs responded.

"Do you seriously want the whole spiel? I mean, beginning to end, we're gonna be here all night."

"Tell me as much as you want to tell me, DiNozzo."

"Hey, come on, you can't do that. 'Cause you know I want to tell you everything, but... some of it doesn't exactly shine all that well on me. You might not look at me the same way. You might... I don't know. You might be disappointed." _In me. In what I did. What I had to do._

He'd done things he wasn't proud of in the past few months. A lot of things. They'd been necessary, yes, but that didn't change the nature of what they were. Being a hunter meant making the hard decisions that no one else wanted to. Being a hunter meant getting your hands dirty. So dirty that it was nigh on impossible to ever wash them clean.

Gibbs's expression softened. "Tony," Gibbs said, and somehow just the one word managed to calm most of his fears. "Tell me your story."


	3. Long Time Traveller

Describing to Gibbs what had happened over the course of the past few months was simultaneously freeing and terrifying.

He'd done things he hadn't been proud of.

Seen things he didn't know how to explain, didn't want to explain.

He'd died. Not once, but twice. Saw Heaven.

He'd met actual gods; dozens of them. And he'd watched an archangel, one of the most powerful beings in the universe, die.

Jesus, he'd seen _so much_.

Hardest of all was telling Gibbs that he'd worked with Crowley. Actually teamed up with the guy who was responsible for raising Orochi, getting McGee killed, and had Gibbs's soul (and now Bobby's as well) under lock and key, and planned to collect in a year and a half.

But they'd needed the Horsemen Rings. And Crowley knew how to get to their owners.

It hadn't been a comfortable arrangement. The only thing that had kept him from stabbing the demon the first opportunity he got was Crowley's promise that, _"Even if I die, his soul's still forfeit. My hounds will collect whether I'm alive or not. Sorry, darling... it's just not that simple."_

So, he was going to have to kill Crowley and all of his pets.

Yeah. Easy job, right?

Gibbs's face was impassive when he explained the Crowley situation. Maybe even understanding. Tony wasn't sure.

It took him almost an hour and a half to tell the whole story, between gulps of beer and bites of steak.

"After that, I said my goodbyes, and I drove straight back here," Tony finally finished. "Happy Memorial Day. I helped stop the Rapture." Tony leaned his chin on his hand. "I just can't believe we actually managed to stop it."

"I can."

Tony tilted his head. "Really? Because I lived it, and I can't."

"You told me you'd stop it. You told me you'd come back." Gibbs shrugged. "Never known you not to keep your word."

"I just don't know what to do now, boss," Tony admitted after a few minutes of silence. "I mean, I promised Sam I'd come home – and it honestly wasn't that tough of a sell – but how am I supposed to just go back to business as usual when there's so much still out there? Armageddon's over, okay, but what about all the monsters? The ghosts? And it's not like all the demons just up and died when Lucifer went down..." Tony carded a hand through his messy hair. "Crowley's still out there. Still has your soul, too."

"There are other hunters out there, Tony. And you don't need to worry about my deal," Gibbs said, sipping at his beer.

"The hell I don't," Tony said. "I meant what I said, Gibbs. I'm getting you out of your deal. There's no way I'm letting you get dragged down. Nope. Not happening. I'll figure out a way to stop Crowley. When he gives Bobby his soul back, he's gonna do me a solid and trap him for me. If we can chain up the little bastard, I can probably work my excellent negotiating skills and see about an exit clause."

Tony grinned, but he knew it rang hollow. Getting Gibbs out of his deal was the very definition of "easier said than done".

"And if he doesn't show up to give Bobby his soul back?"

Tony's expression darkened. "Then I'll figure out something else. He's just a demon, and I've faced a lot worse than him in the past couple of months." He'd gone head to head with the damn devil. Everything else lost some of its ferocity after that. Tony sighed. "We'll work it out, I promise."

"You don't need to promise me anything."

"Yeah, yeah I do," Tony replied. "I always keep my word, right? So if I make a promise that I'll get your soul back..." He held up his hands and cracked a weak smile. "Then we're golden."

"Whatever you say, DiNozzo."

"I do say," Tony responded. He pushed away his plate, now devoid of all remnants. "But enough about me, and my supernatural adventures. How've things been with you guys?"

"Same old, same old. Ziva's naturalization is coming up. Couple weeks from now, she'll be a full US citizen."

Tony couldn't help but smile. So, Ziva was finally switching teams for good, eh? In a way, it was a relief. Now there was really no threat of anything dragging Ziva back to Israel. He still privately feared he would lose her again, like he had after the Rivkin incident, but if she was a US citizen now, at least he could probably count on her remaining in the country.

"I've never been so disappointed in the United States Government," he joked. "They'll let anyone in these days, even our favorite Israeli ninja."

"She's worked hard for it," Gibbs said, and he could detect the pride in the older agent's voice. "McGee's been quizzing her. She probably knows the constitution better than the entire team combined."

"Ah, McGoo. How is my fair Probie?"

"Doing good. Really stepped up since you left."

"Glad to hear that. I knew he would," Tony said sincerely. "So, I guess I'm not gonna bother beating around the bush... who'd you get to replace me?"

Gibbs rose from his chair, gesturing for Tony to follow him. He was headed for the basement stairs, unsurprisingly.

"Burley's been filling your seat since you left," Gibbs told him. "I pulled a few strings, got him reassigned to the MCRT."

Tony didn't really know how to feel about that. For the past five months, Burley had been in _his_ chair, doing _his_ job, working with _his_ team, taking orders from _his_ boss.

Okay, he did know how he felt about it: he didn't like it.

"Is it good having him back?" Tony asked, trying not to let his opinion on the matter shine through his tone.

Gibbs reached the bottom of the stairs. "I told him it was only temporary."

Tony arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Gibbs nodded as he went to his ever-present bottle of bourbon. "Mhmm. Weird thing happened, too... when Vance went to put your resignation through, he must've accidentally put in for leave instead. Good thing you had almost eight months worth of personal and sick days saved up."

Tony laughed, a grin stretching from one ear to the other. "You had Vance pull a Jenny on me, didn't you?"

Gibbs grabbed two mason jars. "Don't know what you're talking about, DiNozzo."

"Aww, boss, I knew that you cared!" In spite of himself, he embraced his boss, squeezing the life out of him in a fashion that would've made Abby proud. He released Gibbs quickly, and he was pleased to see a half-smirk on Gibbs's face.

The older agent poured three fingers of bourbon into each mason jar, then passed one to Tony. "That mean you're coming back?"

Tony was silent for a moment as he sipped his bourbon. Ah. Still tasted like paint thinner, still burned just the same way. Some things never changed.

"Sam told me to go home," Tony said. "NCIS is my home."

Gibbs raised his mason jar, and Tony mimicked him. "I'll drink to that," he said, and the two of them clinked their pseudo glasses together.

He really was coming back. He was going to be an NCIS agent again. He was going to sleep in the same bed every night (okay, hopefully not _every_ night) and eat actual food instead of just diner slop. He was going to be chasing human criminals instead of paranormal monsters. No more angels and demons hunting him down. No more Armageddon.

He didn't know whether he wanted to cry out of relief, or grief. Because he wasn't just giving up the bad stuff, he was giving up the good stuff, too. Sitting on the roof of the Impala, drinking beer after beer and watching the stars with the Winchesters. Fighting monsters and saving people. Singing along with Dean as an endless stream of classic rock pounded over the Impala's radio. Trying to explain references to Castiel... and, of course, that overwhelming feeling that he was part of something greater.

It was time to leave it behind, he supposed. He and Bobby would take care of Crowley soon enough. If the demon didn't pony up the souls he owed, then Tony would negotiate with the business end of Ruby's knife. Lucifer, Michael, Adam, and Sam were all in the Cage. Dean was with Ben and Lisa. Cas was busy trying to fix Heaven.

Time to move on. Time to try normal again.

Tony laughed softly into his drink, though it didn't have any mirth. "So... how much do they hate me?"

Gibbs gave a slight shake of his head. "They don't hate you."

"I walked away without saying a word to anyone other than you and Vance. No explanation, no goodbye... no nothing." If he was in McGee, Ziva, Abby, or Ducky's place, he'd be not only hurt, but completely furious.

They'd all called him about forty times before giving up... except for McGee.

McGee hadn't called once.

"Ziva was pissed. Abby was... Abby." He didn't need to elaborate further than that. "Duck said somethin' like, 'if you love it, let it go'..." He took a deep drink of his bourbon. "McGee, well... McGee got it."

"He understood? Really?"

"Yep. Said he was half-tempted to follow you," Gibbs explained. "Still put out that you left without saying goodbye, though."

"Kind of a dick move, I can admit that." Tony leaned against the work bench. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

The idea of seeing the rest of the team again was simultaneously frightening and exciting. Frightening, because he didn't even want to know what kind of torture Abby and Ziva had planned for him as payment for running out on them. Excited because… well, he'd missed them all so much these past few months. The Winchesters were great, they really were, and he'd grown very close to the two of them, Bobby, and Castiel over the past few months… but his team? That was his family.

"Have you told them?" he asked, changing subjects swiftly. Gibbs didn't respond as he took a sander from off of the wall and put it to one of the supports of his current boat. He didn't say anything for so long that Tony began to wonder if he was going to reply at all.

"No," he said at length, expression grave.

"Not even Ducky?"

"Nope. And it's going to stay that way."

Tony wanted to argue, but he couldn't disagree with Gibbs's reasons for keeping his demon deal and the true nature of McGee's resurrection under wraps. No one deserved to have that kind of burden on their shoulders, especially not McGee. Still, lying to the rest of the team would never feel right. Keeping secrets from one another had never turned out well for them before.

"Fine. It won't matter for much longer anyway. Once Crowley coughs up your soul and Bobby's, we can put it all behind us. Permanently." It sounded like a lie even as it came out of his mouth. Even once Gibbs's soul was safe, they would never be able to go back to how things used to be. At least not fully. "How's partial demonhood treating you?" he inquired.

Gibbs didn't look at him. "Can't eat anything with too much salt, now."

Tony couldn't help but laugh at that. "Sodium's not good for your heart anyway, boss." He set his glass down. He'd really had enough of that for the night – it was almost as bad as the swill Bobby drank. "But seriously… anything negative happening?"

Over the course of his time with the Winchesters, he'd found out about Sam's big secret: he'd been infected with demon blood at six and a half months old. From what he'd been told, none of the after-effects of it were good.

"Not exactly negative. Not exactly positive either," Gibbs said. "Visions, for one."

"You're getting visions?"

"Mhmm."

"Visions of… what?"

"You," Gibbs said. "Didn't really make the connection 'til you told me everything that happened. Thought they were just weird dreams… but I was seeing what was actually happening to you."

"How often did that happen?"

"Seven or eight times."

"Wow." Tony frowned. Sam had visions too, didn't he? Before his powers developed further… he wondered what Gibbs was capable of. "Anything else freaky?"

"I'm stronger, faster, I can see better– not that I'm complaining. Makes the job easier."

"I can imagine." Tony couldn't help but still be worried about the demonic taint that Orochi had left on Gibbs. It hadn't turned out well for Sam, that was for sure.

_Come on, this is Gibbs. It's not like he's going to suddenly go dark side. You're just being paranoid,_ he told himself.

"You still look dead on your feet," Gibbs observed. "We're going in early tomorrow, so you should probably get some shut-eye."

"Tomorrow?" Tony echoed. "I'm– I'm going back tomorrow?"

"If you're coming back, you're gonna have a lot of paperwork to fill out– might as well get on top of it," Gibbs said. "Could use some extra help, with McGee and Abby heading to Mexico in a few days."

"I guess I could make the argument that the devil killed me three days ago and I need more of a break, but at this point, I think going back to work is exactly what I need." Tony stretched languidly. "Get back into my element, you know?"

Gibbs nodded. "Bed's yours. I stopped by your apartment and got some of your clothes while you were asleep. Your bag's in the living room."

"Thanks, boss." Tony took his remaining bourbon and poured it into Gibbs's mason jar. "I mean that."

He made his way to the stairs, but Gibbs's voice halted him halfway up. "Tony."

Tony turned to look at the older man.

Gibbs had a faint smile on his face. "It's good to have you back."

Tony grinned at him. "Good to be back, boss."

* * *

Tony looked up at NCIS, and he felt like it had been a lifetime since he was last here. It was early, and the sun had just risen, casting a pale glow of fresh morning light on the Navy Yard and NCIS Headquarters. So this was it. His homecoming. The last time he was here, he'd been weighed down by guilt and fear, and the Navy Yard had been blanketed in snow.

Birds were chirping in the distance, and he couldn't say that he felt lighter, because the guilt and terror had been replaced by loss... but he didn't feel as though the world was sitting on his shoulders anymore, and that in and of itself was a relief. No more Armageddon. It was going to take awhile to get used to the fact that the apocalypse wasn't hanging over his head anymore. Everything didn't have an encroaching expiration date, now.

"You gonna stand there all morning, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked from ahead of him. Tony shook himself.

"Sorry, boss. Very intense internal narrative. Everybody loves a good monologue," Tony said before catching up with the other agent. "You tell the others I'm coming in?"

"Nope." The two of them walked through the front doors, checked in through security. The security guard was new, someone Tony hadn't seen before. He supposed that he should prepare himself for some changes. He'd been gone for almost half a year, after all. "Just Vance. He's expecting you in his office by 0800."

"I'm sure Vance will be ecstatic to see me." Tony began pulling out his weapons as they reached the metal detector. He put on his Colt .45 he'd acquired while on the road, a wicked Bowie knife, a small SAA loaded with salt rounds that he kept around his ankle, and Ruby's knife down on the conveyor belt. The guard eyed him warily.

"Prepared for anything?" Gibbs asked out of the corner of his mouth, setting his knife and SIG Sauer down on the conveyor belt as well. They walked through the metal detector and retrieved their weapons on the other end.

"Hunting rule number three," Tony said. "Paranoia keeps you alive."

"How many rules did you make?"

"I don't know. I lost count." He slid his .45 back into his holster, and he and Gibbs made their way to the elevator. "I hope you realize how likely it is that either Abby or Ziva is going to kill me."

"I know," Gibbs answered as he hit the button for the third floor. The elevator doors slid closed.

"Abby knows how to kill someone without leaving a trace of forensic evidence," Tony reminded him.

"Yup."

"Ziva can kill a man like ten different ways using only her thumbs," he added.

"Oh, more than that."

"And you're not worried by their potential reactions at all?"

"Are you?"

"Rule twelve," Tony told him. "Always be worried. I like that one a lot better than your rule twelve, boss." The doors dinged open, revealing the bullpen. Ah, but he'd missed this place. From the obnoxious orange wallpaper that made all of their skin tones look tangerine to the headache-inducing skylights and the smell of white-out... it was all the comforts of home.

His eyes immediately went to the MCRT's section of the bullpen. Ziva's desk was empty - no surprise there, she was always the last to show up - but McGee was sitting in front of his computer, already tapping away, his coffee cup set just by his hand. As Tony watched him, McGee picked up his cup and blew on it.

Tony felt like crying.

He and Gibbs walked side by side to their grouping of desks. He could tell that Burley had been at his; everything was too neat, too organized, everything just in the right place. He dropped his backpack on the desk, scattering desk supplies everywhere. McGee looked up at the sound, and his bright green eyes widened almost comically at the sight of Tony.

"Oh my God."

"Hey there, Probie," Tony greeted with a lopsided smirk. "Miss me?"

McGee was out of his chair in an instant. Tony closed the distance between them and threw his arms around the other man's narrow shoulders, crushing him to him. Contradictory as it may have been, Tony had felt even closer to McGee after he'd killed him and he was resurrected. He understood what it felt like to lose him, and it made sure that he never made the mistake of taking him for granted again.

"I can't believe you're alive," McGee admitted, squeezing him back just as tightly. "Did you- Tony, did you do it?"

" _We_ did it," Tony said. "No more Judgment Day. No more archangel royal rumble. Everybody lives."

"You actually pulled it off? How?"

"Story for another time, McCurious," he said, pulling back slightly. He gripped McGee's shoulder. "This is all I'll say: Part of me was afraid of what I would find, and what I would do when I got there. I knew the risks, or imagined I knew. But the thing I felt the most... much stronger than fear... was the desire to confront him. Satan himself."

Nearby, Gibbs laughed. McGee deadpanned. "Did you just quote _Apocalypse Now_ at me?"

"Of course I did. That film was a masterpiece. Not to mention, situationally appropriate."

McGee snorted. "Well, I'm glad to see you haven't changed too much." He glanced between Tony and Gibbs. "Are you staying, or just visiting?"

"Oh, I'm staying, Tim. Permanently. ET goes home," Tony informed him, leaning against his old desk.

"Just like that? What about Sam and Dean? Castiel?" McGee inquired. Tony licked his lips, trying to find a way to break the news to McGee. It's not like he'd known the Winchesters particularly well, but they were all close to them in their own way. After all, if it weren't for the Winchesters and Cas, they would all be dead.

"Cas went back to Heaven to try to patch things up. Dean went to an old girlfriend's." He paused, unsure of how to phrase Sam's fate. "Sam... Sam didn't make it."

McGee stared at him for a moment, seeming somewhat uncomprehending of the news. "Sam's dead?"

"Sacrificed himself to stop Lucifer." He was suddenly very grateful that there weren't any other agents within earshot of their section of the bullpen. "Real hero's death, blaze of glory... you know the routine."

"Wow." McGee shook his head. "I don't know what to say."

"Neither did I," Tony said dully.

_"Cas... did he do it?"_

_"He did. The apocalypse has been averted."_

_"So, Sam... he's..."_

_"He's gone."_

Tony took a deep breath, then clapped his hands together. "Anyway! The prodigal son has returned. I'm off to the top of the mountain to see if Vance will give me my job back." Tony rose from where he was seated on his desk. McGee opened his mouth to say something, but then his brow creased, and he looked incredibly concerned.

"What's wrong with you? You look like you just saw a ghost. And trust me, I would know."

"Ziva."

"What about her?"

"She's-"

Before McGee could finish, Tony was forcibly turned around, and a fist slammed into his jaw.


	4. One Hundred Sleepless Nights

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was stiflingly hot in the conference room. The oppressive heat had made short work of the ice bag he'd gotten for his throbbing jaw, turning it to water.

Ziva had a mean right hook.

He'd probably be busted up in a few more places if Gibbs hadn't pulled Ziva off of him. Gibbs had barked for him to go take care of business with Vance. He'd obediently scurried up the steps to Vance's office, listening with one ear while McGee tried to talk Ziva down.

"Ziva, cut him some slack, he's been through a lot–"

_"So have we!"_

Sharp as a knife, Ziva's words could really cut when she wanted them to.

Tony sighed, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. Fumbling, he found what he'd been looking for.

With a clatter, he dropped it on the table.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he murmured, reading the gold badge that Vance had just returned to him. "Heh. The boys are back in town."

But Ziva's reaction had been proof enough that things weren't just going to go back to normal, as if he had never walked away at all. Not easily, anyway.

The Orochi incident had left both mental and physical wounds on all of them. And instead of sticking around to help stitch those wounds, Tony had run off with the Winchesters to save the world.

All for the greater good, right?

At least, that's what he kept telling himself. And maybe if he told himself that enough times, he'd actually start to believe it.

With a sigh, Tony rose to his feet. He pocketed his badge once more. He'd signed all the proper paperwork, and he would officially return to active field duty tomorrow at seven sharp.

Vance had told him to go home. Get resettled.

For some reason, his apartment was the last place he wanted to go. But the idea of running home and hiding instead of facing the others did, admittedly, have its charm.

_Hunting Rule 15: The problem with running away, is that most things you'd want to run from can run a hell of a lot faster than you. So, don't run._

He'd learned that one the hard way.

Tony ran a hand through his hair, feeling like he'd gone through thirty years in the past hour.

He'd almost decided on leaving, when–

_Oh shit. How could I forget?_

He wasn't heading home just yet. No, it was time to head to the basement.

* * *

She'd gaped, at first. Then, she'd poked his face a couple of times, just to make sure that he was actually real. Asked him a round of weird, obscure questions about movies that she was positive only he would be able to answer to any efficacy.

The tears came after that, and the bone crushing hug.

"I was so afraid you'd never come back. I k-kept having nightmares–"

"Shh, it's okay, Abs. I'm tougher than I look. Behind my suave exterior, I'm a rough and tumble, take-no-prisoners kind of–"

Abby slapped him on the back of his head. "Shut up, Tony." She punctuated the statement by hugging him tighter.

"Will do." He smiled faintly into her hair, hugging her back just as tightly. They hung like that for a long time, and he felt... safe. Safer than he had in a long time.

Safer than he had since he'd met the Winchesters.

"I missed you so much," Abby told him.

"Feeling's more than mutual," he replied. He made to pull away, but Abby refused to let him go.

"Oh, you owe me at least another ten minutes of this, after what you did. At least. And free Caf-Pows for the next month. Or else I'll sic Ziva on you."

His jaw seemed to ache more at the mention of her name, as if it knew precisely who had decided to pound a fist into it. "Heard about that, huh? I forgot how quickly gossip moves around here." He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. "It was just a love tap."

"She's hurting."

"Yeah. So is this." He tapped a finger to the line of his jaw.

Abby withdrew just enough to level a cross look at him. "She has a right to be mad."

"You think she'll come around? Because it might be bad for NCIS public relations if he tries to lay the smack down on me when we're interviewing a–"

"Tony," Abby cut across him. "She... she needs time."

Funny. He thought giving Ziva time to herself was the whole reason she was pissed at him in the first place.

"Right." Tony felt deflated, unsure of what to do next.

"McGee and I are coming over tonight," Abby told him, finally releasing him. "Pizza, wings, and stories. Got it? We both need as much Tony Time as we can get before we head down to Mexico for my seminar."

"I'll provide the alcohol," Tony offered with a tight smile.

"It's a date."

* * *

There were a lot of reasons that Tony loved Abby, but none became more apparent than one particular trait when Tony stepped into his apartment for the first time in five months.

"Kate! You're not floating belly-up!"

Abby always remembered the little things.

The gold fish swam about happily in its bowl, occasionally flitting through a ruby studded hollow skull.

He smiled to himself. This had Abby written all over it.

Tony huffed out a laugh under his breath, dropping his bag on the floor with a dull _thunk_. He headed to the gold fish bowl and tapped lightly on the glass.

"Heya, Kate. Did ya miss me?"

Unsurprisingly, the fish offered no response.

"It's alright, you don't have to say anything. That beautiful vacant stare tells me everything I need to know."

With a breath of a sigh, Tony straightened up, glancing around his apartment. Minus a thick layer of dust, nothing had really changed. Still just as cozy and stylish as ever.

And empty.

Yeah, that too.

He grabbed his bag and brought it to his room, setting it on his bed. He unpacked completely, cleaning out his duffel entirely for the first time since he'd packed it.

The bottom was filled with everything from empty holy water flasks, to diner receipts, to salt rounds. A total mess. A testament to the very hectic, very mobile life he'd been living of late.

While folding and stowing his clothes in his dresser, he noticed a shirt that wasn't his– it was Dean's. A red button-up he must've mistaken for his the last time they all did their laundry.

He held up the shirt in his hands, trying to ignore the dual pangs of loneliness and grief. He'd grown so accustomed to the Winchesters constant presence. Now Dean was out of both Tony's life and "the" life, and Sam...

Sam was gone.

It was very likely that Tony would never see or hear from either of them ever again.

And that left Tony with sick, hollow feeling in his chest as he stood there in his dusty room.

He finished unpacking, and his liquor cabinet was his next stop.

* * *

_Cicero, Indiana_

No more beer in the fridge, and the house was empty. Quiet. Too damn quiet. The whole sickly sweet suburban street was too quiet. Even with the soccer moms chattering on the sidewalks, the dads mowing the lawns, the kids riding their bikes down the streets, it was too quiet.

Not noise wise, just...

Normalcy. Jesus. How were you supposed to recognize something you'd never even seen before?

Apple pie life. Well, here he fucking was.

Dean paced a hole in the carpet. Tried to watch TV, couldn't. Lisa had taken Ben to his doctor's appointment. Annual check-up. Which left Dean alone for the first time since he'd showed up on Lisa's doorstep.

_"It's okay, Dean."_

No.

It wasn't.

He laced his fingers behind his neck, bent his head, pinched his eyes shut, tried to clear away the thoughts, the images.

But some stains, you can't just wipe 'em clean.

Sam, falling.

Cas, exploding. The hot blood slamming into him at full velocity and he's gone, gone just like that.

And then the clinical _snap_ of Bobby and Tony's necks.

God, he'd give anything to stop thinking for five seconds. To just... stop.

And that was the hitch, at the end of the day. That every part of him was screaming, ready to die... or ready to dive straight into Hell and find a way to drag Sam out, promises made on the edge of the apocalypse be damned.

But that promise was what held him here, with Lisa, with Ben.

Lisa held him, let him drink, let him cry, let him breakdown. A practical stranger to her, and to her son, but...

But to her, he was the guy who saved her son. And the guy that represented the future that they'd both dreamt of but never had.

She saw him, and she saw a hero. Maybe a shell-shocked war vet, now.

How could she just take him in like this with open arms, so easily? How could she trust him like that?

_People who trust me end up dead._

A part of him knew that whatever he built here would be doomed to crumble, but the tiny spark of hope that it wouldn't was the only thing keeping him alive, so he held onto it.

But hope or not, the silence was still too much.

Before he knew it he was picking up his phone. Hitting speed dial five.

_Ring, ring..._

"Dean?" came the surprised voice on the other end.

Dean sank down onto the living room couch, running a hand through his hair with his free hand. "Hey, Tony."

* * *

So much for never hearing from him again.

"I..." Tony wasn't sure what to say. They'd barely spoken to one another after the events at Stull. After Cas had restored himself and Bobby to life, Dean had hugged them both, and then he and Cas were off in the Impala.

He'd thought that would be the end of it.

Evidently not.

He wasn't going to pretend it wasn't somewhat of a relief to hear Dean's voice; his apartment was too quiet, too empty, too...

He couldn't stand it.

Tony eventually decided on, "How are you doing?" Dumb question, yeah. But what else could he say? _"Hey Dean, how's the whole dead brother thing going?"_

He heard an audible swallow on the other end. "Oh, you know. Sunshine and roses." Dean cleared his throat, obviously having about as much trouble with their impromptu conversation as he was. "How's being home?"

"It's good to be back. Not exactly what I expected, but... yeah. Good to be back."

"Ziva punch you in the face yet?"

Dean had apparently nailed down Ziva's personality pretty well in the brief time he was exposed to her. "I'm in the process of making up a better story for the bruises."

"Better her than Satan, right?"

Lucifer had cracked him one in the nose when they'd first met at Elysian Fields. Mouthing off to the devil, in retrospect, hadn't been his greatest idea.

"Close call, though."

Dean laughed. Probably for the first time since Sam died. It was a short-lived ragged chuckle, but it was something.

"Seriously, though... how did things go with Lisa?" True, he didn't want to push things, but if there was one thing he'd learned about Dean over the past few months, it was that if you wanted anything genuine out of Dean Winchester, you had to get him drunk, angry, or you just had to bug him about it until you got a straight, honest answer.

Tony was nothing if not persistent.

"Didn't leave me out on my ass. So, good, I guess." There was a heavy pause before Dean continued. "Ben had a doctor's appointment, so I'm just sitting here, waiting for them to get back." Another pause, even longer this time. "I feel like I'm gonna jump outta my damn skin, man. I wouldn't know normalcy if it kicked me in the junk. And now that I'm swimming in it... I don't know what to do."

"Does it feel wrong?"

"Maybe not wrong. But like I've got an itch I can't scratch."

"It's only been four days, Dean."

"I know."

Tony rose to his feet, now feeling too antsy to sit down. "Don't do what you're thinking of doing."

"How do you know what I'm thinking of doing?"

"Because the only thing you're ever really thinking of is Sam. And Sam is..."

"Dead," Dean spat out hoarsely. "Yeah, thanks for the newsflash."

"Look, you know what he wanted for us. This is it. We swore to him we'd quit."

"Oh, so you're just giving up? You're gonna let Crowley snatch up Gibbs's soul come next year?"

He could tell Dean was pissed, but maybe that was for the best. Get it all out. Repressed emotions un-repressing themselves.

"No. But once Bobby and I figure out how to get rid of our friendly neighborhood demon jerk-off, I'll hang up my hunting hat for good."

"It's easy for you," Dean replied. "You've always lived like this. The stable job, roof over your head, family, friends. You know how to deal with that. _That_ is your normal. _My_ normal is getting my ass kicked back and forth across the Mason-Dixon line by a bunch of fucking monsters."

"Even if you hadn't promised Sam that you'd get out of hunting, you're not in the head space for it right now, anyway."

"Bobby's tracking down a damn rugaru in Dayton! He jumped straight back in!"

"Bobby's also not on a suicide run."

"You think that's what I want?"

"Honestly? Yeah."

Dean's resounding silence spoke volumes. Tony dithered on what to say next.

"I'm not going to tell you some crap about how it's always darkest before the dawn, or how time heals all wounds. I can't even tell you that Sam's looking down on you and wants you to be happy, because we both know that's not true. Sam's in Hell. But you know what? I'd bet my life the only thing he's got to hold onto down there is the hope that you've got a real chance to be happy. Don't take that away from him."

There was a knocking at his door, a scattered, energetic rhythm. Abby and McGee, more than likely.

He clapped a hand over the phone, yelled, "One second!"

When he pulled his hand back, Dean was mid-sentence, "–maybe you're right. I just... I'll try. For Sammy. I just don't know if I can do this. Really stay away."

"You're not the only hunter in the world, buddy. Someone else will pick up the slack."

Dean snorted. "And probably get killed in the process."

"Either way, it's not your problem anymore."

"Isn't that a nice fucking change." A hint of humor returned to him.

"Hey, listen. Abby and McGee just showed up, so I gotta go, but... don't be a stranger."

"Yeah, okay, Mom."

"I'm a very fair parent." Tony smirked. "Bye, Dean."

"See ya."

Reluctantly, Tony hung up, not sure if he'd done more harm than good. Before he could linger on thoughts like that too much, the knocking at the door got louder and more insistent.

"Tony, come on! The pizza's getting cold!"

"Coming!"

* * *

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

_"Et ad congregandum, eos coram me."_

Bobby lit a match, dropped it into the bowl of herbs that sat on his desk.

His "guest" arrived only moments later, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway of his kitchen.

"Been making merry, have we?" Crowley asked lazily, eyeing the general mess that was Bobby's study.

Bobby glared at Crowley. "Bite me."

"If that's your thing." Crowley snapped his fingers, and the TV shut off. He stepped away from the wall, sauntering into the study proper.

_Come on closer, you little bastard..._

"That swan dive of Sam's was a thing of beauty. Tens all the way around. Standing O from the Romanian judge." Crowley smirked. "You should be proud, Bobby! As deaths go, it wasn't too shabby."

Bobby just kept on glaring.

"Cheer up, mate. We just saved the sodding world together! Me, I've been celebrating."

The grin that crept onto the demon's stolen face made Bobby's skin crawl. "I'd hate to see what you call celebrating."

Crowley laughed. "Yes, you would."

Bobby lifted the bottle at his side. "Drink?" he offered. Just a couple more feet, and Crowley would walk straight into the trap that he'd set for him.

He wasn't some kinda damn fool. He knew he wasn't getting his soul back, just like that. And never mind the fact that Crowley wasn't letting Gibbs's soul go, no way, no how.

Crowley looked mildly disgusted. "No."

"Let me get this straight. We just _saved the sodding world together_ ," he said, mocking Crowley's accent, "and you're too good to drink with me?"

"Obviously." Crowley poked at the bottle that sat atop his television. "I doubt you have my brand."

"What's your poison, your highness?"

"Craig. Aged thirty years. Been drinking it since grade school."

"Well, I got old rotgut, aged six days." Bobby grabbed his bottle and took a deep drink of it. Too bad Crowley hadn't agreed to have a glass. Bobby had laced it with so much holy water it would've had him choking.

"Swill like that is gonna burn a hole in your soul. Oops, sorry– _my_ soul." Crowley examined his fingernails, looking like he didn't have a care in the world. "But that's why you called, isn't it... our little deal. And, of course, my outstanding agreement with a certain silver fox. Which is, by the way, no business of yours."

"The hell it isn't," Bobby growled. "It's time you hold up your end of the deal and give it back. Then we'll talk about Gibbs."

The demon quirked his head to the side, feigning confusion. "Give it back?" he questioned.

"The deal was: we ice Lucifer, you rip up the lease."

"Oh." The smug-ass look Crowley wore was begging to be shot off. Preferably by something high caliber. "You didn't read your contract."

"Contract?"

Crowley snapped his fingers. Bobby doubled over, lines of pain shooting all over his body as Crowley's elegant handwriting branded itself into every inch of his flesh.

"Paragraph 18, subsection B, which is on your naughty bits." Oh yeah, he could _really_ feel that one. "I only have to make _best efforts_ to give you your soul back."

Crowley released him from his agony, and the words faded. Bobby straightened. Gritting his teeth, he asked, "Meaning what?"

"Meaning, I'd like to," Crowley made a straining gesture, then sighed in fake defeat, "But I can't."

"You lying sack of–"

Crowley cut him off. "Ten years." The demon approached Bobby. "You come to Daddy. Until then, I suggest you start drinking the good stuff."

_Bingo, asshole._

"I figured you'd say something like that. So you can rot here until you change your mind. On both my deal, and Gibbs's."

Crowley snorted. "Why? 'Cause you asked nicely?"

Bobby shook his head. "Nope." He walked past Crowley, making for the light switch. "Because I'm going _Dateline_ on your ass."

Out went the lights, and Crowley realized he was standing in the center of a Devil's Trap, one that had been invisible in the light.

"I hope that's paint. Really." Crowley sighed. "What _am_ I going to do?"

Bobby turned to head to the kitchen and pour himself a glass, then kick back and relax and listen to Crowley bitch about the situation he'd just walked himself into.

When he heard a loud growl just to the side of him, and felt fetid breath, all blood and rotting meat, ghost over his face.

_Uh-oh._

"Doggie breath! Bracing, isn't it?"

Bobby gulped and turned toward Crowley. He hadn't seen this coming. _Should've remembered he's got hellhounds. Dumb move._

"Ball's in your court, Robert. Ten years of living, or ten years as Alpo. And if Tony gets it in that pretty head of his to do something like this little stunt here, he can be Growley's new chew toy."

"You bastard–"

Crowley grinned. "Welcome to the new game, darling... and I play to win."

He knew hellhound teeth were inches from his throat, and he knew that he'd lost this round.

Hating Crowley with everything he had, he pulled out a pocket knife and stooped down, snicking through the edge of the trap.

"This ain't over," he told Crowley, pointing his knife at the demon.

Crowley smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He passed by Bobby, a skip in his step. "Happy hunting."

With that, both Crowley and his hellhound were gone.


End file.
